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.ODORE     ROOSEVELT 

A   TRIBUTE    BY    WILLIAM     HARD 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 
A  TRIBUTE 


But  go  thou  thy  way  till  the  end  be : 
for  thou  shalt  rest,  and  stand  in  thy  lot 
at  the  end  of  the  days* 

DANIEL  XII:  13 


THEODORE 
ROOSEVELT 

A       TRIBUTE       BY 
WILLIAM       HARD 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS  BIRD  MOSHER 

MDCCCCXX 


COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS  BIRD  MOSHER 
1919 


T  AM  permitted  the  publication  of  one 

of  the  most  beautiful  things  written, 

or    likely    to    be    written,    concerning 

Theodore    Roosevelt.       This    Tribute, 

first  printed  in  The  New  Republic  for 

January    25,     1919,     under    the    title 

Roosevelt  Now,  to  me,  is  one  of  the 

finer  flowers  of  farewell.     It  possesses 

an    underlying    emotional    quality,     a 

restrained  fervor,  unapproached  by  any 

one  who  has  as  yet  appraised  this  great 

leader,  not  of  a  Party  only  but  of  all 

Americans  in  the  living  Present. 

"  He  was  of  those  whose  words  can  shake 

And  riddle  to  the  very  core 

The  falsities  that  Time  will  break/' 

T.  B.  M. 


*  ^i  i'\  1*      *   **'•* 

47014 4 


A  FTER  this  it  was  noised  abroad 
that  Mr*  Valiant-for-truth  was 
taken  with  a  summons,  by  the  same 
post  as  the  other,  and  had  this  for  a 
token  that  the  summons  was  true: 
44  That  his  pitcher  was  broken  at  the 
fountain."  When  he  understood  it,  he 
called  for  his  friends  and  told  them  of 
it.  Then  said  he,  I  am  going  to  my 
fathers,  and  though  with  great  diffi 
culty  I  am  got  hither,  yet  now  I  do  not 
repent  me  of  all  the  trouble  I  have  been 
at  to  arrive  where  I  am.  My  sword  I 
give  to  him  that  shall  succeed  me  in  my 
pilgrimage,  and  my  courage  and  skill 
to  him  that  can  get  it.  My  marks 
and  scars  I  carry  with  me,  to  be  a  wit 
ness  for  me  that  I  have  fought  His 
battles  who  now  will  be  my  rewarder. 
When  the  day  that  he  must  go  hence 
was  come,  many  accompanied  him  to 
the  river-side,  into  which  as  he  went 


he  said,  "  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  }n 
And  as  he  went  down  deeper,  he  said, 
44  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ?"  So 
he  passed  over,  and  all  the  trumpets 
sounded  for  him  on  the  other  side* 

JOHN  BUNYAN 

(  The  Pilgrim's  Progress} 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

October  27,  1858 
Januarp     6,  1919 


Let  us  believe  that  in  the  silence  of  the 
receding  world  he  heard  the  great  waves 
breaking  on  a  farther  shore,  and  felt 
already  upon  his  wasted  brow  the  breath 
of  the  eternal  morning. 

JAMES  G.  ELAINE 
(Eulogy  on  Garfield} 


V 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

HE  words  and  ways  of 
the  time  are  gone  for 
him.  He  spoke  them 
and  he  trod  them.  But 
what  was  timeless  in  him  was  what 
we  loved  in  him. 

He  was  life's  lover  and  life's  scorner. 
He  explored  it  forever  and  he  was 
forever  ready  to  leave  it.  He  was 
not  simply  life's  energy.  He  was  not 
simply,  beyond  any  other  living  man, 
life's  eternal  forthright  force.  He  was 


the  irrelevant  curiosity  of  it  and  the 
vagrant  wandering  of  it  and  the  find 
ing  of  great  magics  in  it  and  the  per 
petual  amazement  of  it  and  its  laughter. 
He  was  everything  in  it,  but  its  tears. 
Tears  he  put  aside*  Was  death  tear 
ful?  Was  pain  tearful?  He  sought 
it  and  dared  it  to  its  instant  worst* 
When  he  boxed,  he  boxed  close  in  and 
bled.  When  he  hunted,  he  hunted 
with  hardship.  The  defying  of  death, 
the  enduring  of  pain,  the  living  with 
bad  eyes  and  with  bad  ears  and  the 
yet  hearing  well  and  the  yet  seeing 
well,  or  as  well  as  possible  —  it  was 
joy*  He  did  not  make  life  an  end. 
Life  for  him  was  nothing  but  openings 
beyond,  openings  to  effort  and  chance 
and  to  the  joy  of  effort  and  chance,  joy 
everlasting. 


So  to  be  with  him  was  not  simply 
to  live  more  strivingly.  It  was  to  live 
more  abundantly*  A  primrose  by  the 
river's  brim  became  a  prodigious  epi 
sode  in  the  migration  of  flowers.  A 
shy  child  coming  into  the  room  became 
a  romp  and  a  riot.  A  dusty  book 
chanced  on  in  the  garret  became  a 
gigantic  pitiless  controversy  among 
scholars  past  and  present  and  to  be. 
A  dead  phrase  became  a  political 
missile.  There  it  lay.  There  it  had 
always  lain.  Roosevelt  stumbled  on  it, 
looked  at  it,  roared,  picked  it  up,  hurled 
it  at  the  right  mark  and  exploded  it 
into  fame.  Everything  became  some 
thing  else.  There  ceased  to  be  any 
such  thing  as  the  commonplace. 
There  ceased  to  be  any  such  thing  as 
a  solid  jungle  of  plodding  fact.  Every 


turn  was  now,  with  him,  a  turn  into 
radiant  vistas*  He  made  Theodore 
Roosevelt  the  most  interesting  thing 
in  the  world*  He  seemed  to  do  so. 
But  when  one  had  gone  away  from 
him  one  found  that  what  he  had  really 
done  was  to  make  the  world  itself 
momentarily  immortally  interesting* 
He  was  the  prism  through  which  the 
light  of  day  took  on  more  colors  than 
could  be  seen  in  anybody  else's  com 
pany*  Him  I  can  remember,  and  him 
I  can  carry  with  me  in  remembrance* 
But  with  him  are  buried  a  million 
gleaming  patterns  and  pageants  I  now 
shall  never  see. 

He  was  instinctive  energy ;  and  he 
was  creative  curiosity;  and  he  went  on 
then  to  his  greatest  greatness.  This 
insatiable  taster  of  life  never  fell  into 


the  heresy  which  damns  the  taster* 
He  knew  there  were  poisons*  He  set 
them  down  from  his  lips.  And  he 
knew  the  pit  in  which  even  the  inno 
cent  but  indiscriminate  thirst  of  all  life 
and  of  all  sensation  becomes  a  poison 
ous  quicksand*  He  leaped  over  it* 
He  might  have  been  the  greatest 
dilettante  of  his  day*  He  might  have 
been*  in  mind  and  in  body*  its  greatest 
dandy*  He  might  have  been  the  most 
promiscuous  absorber  of  its  offerings* 
He  became  the  most  girded  pursuer 
of  its  activities*  He  girt  himself  with 
choices  and  denials*  The  heresy  of 
self-expression  as  an  end*  the  heresy 
of  self-development  as  an  end*  he  met 
and  conquered*  Having  perceived 
what  things  make  life  run  on  in  joy 
forever*  even  when  the  joy  of  the 


runner  is  gone,  he  chose  such  things* 
Things  different  he  left*  He  perceived 
them,  but  he  left  them*  He  had  a 
genius  for  the  whole  of  life*  but  he  had 
an  even  greater  genius  for  the  whole 
some*  With  him  one  seemed  to  roam 
the  world  without  limit  and  yet  to 
return  without  soil*  To  be  sophisti 
cated  to  the  very  verge  of  the  ultimate 
human  abyss  and  yet  to  be  as  clean 
as  a  clean  animal — that  was  his  most 
extraordinary  achievement  and  his 
most  extraordinary  legacy  in  the  pos 
sibilities  of  the  art  of  living*  He  lived* 
and  he  lived  abundantly*  he  lived  ex 
uberantly*  with  all  his  universality* 
within  submissions*  He  submitted  to 
the  continuing  life  of  the  individual  and 
of  the  family  and  of  what  is  greater 
than  the  family*  And  to  that  greater 


thing  he  gave  his  supreme  submission. 
He  gave  it  to  the  greatest  cause  he 
could  perceive.  He  gave  it  to  America. 
It  compelled  him  in  his  young  years 
from  the  labors  of  the  naturalist  to  the 
labors  of  the  public  man.  It  furnished 
him  with  the  one  doctrine  of  his  last 
years*  Those  last  years  were,  if  sad 
ness  could  ever  have  touched  him,  sad. 
They  were  lonely.  But  they  were 
lofty.  They  were  his  greatest.  They 
were  not  his  greatest  intellectually  or 
temperamentally.  But,  beyond  com 
pare,  they  were  his  greatest  morally. 
In  political  detail  he  remained  indeed 
within  the  pettiness  of  politics,  more 
so  than  ever,  but  in  political  devotion 
to  what  he  thought  to  be  essential 
public  moral  doctrine  he  went  farther 
than  he  had  ever  before  gone,  out  of 


the  politician  completely  into  the  patriot 
and  so  into  the  prophet. 

Remonstrances  came  upon  him 
floodingly.  He  was  so  full  and  .so 
open  about  armies  and  navies  and  war 
with  Germany.  If  he  would  only 
abridge,  if  he  would  only  abate,  he 
could  so  much  better  advance  his  party 
and  advance  himself.  He  replied  with 
fury.  Never  by  abridgment  or  abate 
ment  would  he  be  President  again. 
The  tariff  he  might  have  reformed, 
or  might  have  refused  to  reform,  by 
circumstances.  Here  was  a  thing  out 
side  circumstances.  That  America 
should  be  ready  to  strike  at  need  and 
that  every  American  should  be  ready 
to  lose  himself  in  the  stroke — on  those 
terms,  and  on  those  terms  only,  was 
he  interested  in  campaigns.  He 

10 


preached  universal  liability  to  national 
survival*  He  was  preaching  personal 
character.  No  submission  no  charac 
ter*  No  limitless  loyalty*  no  man 
hood.  No  loss  of  self  into  America, 
no  self.  No  life  militant  and  at  risk* 
no  life  triumphant  and  at  joy* 

Loyalties  may  change.  Submis 
sions  may  shift.  Nations  may  give 
way  to  industries  and  to  groupings  of 
industries*  Quarrels  between  govern 
ments  may  vanish  and  be  replaced 
by  quarrels  between  syndicates  and 
between  classes.  National  armies 
and  fleets  may  melt  into  the  armies 
and  fleets  of  the  bourgeoisie  and  of  the 
proletariat.  The  red  soldiers  of  Lenin 
may  be  succeeded  by  the  green  or 
purple  soldiers  of  a  greater  and  a  more 
thorough  than  Lenin*  Yet  will  the 

u 


meaning  of  Roosevelt  be  there.  Yet 
will  his  virtues  be  essential  to  mankind 
if  mankind  is  not  to  be  the  stagnant 
prey  of  every  successive  little  wilful 
whirlwind  of  autocratic  or  democratic 
or  communistic  or  anarchistic  or 
eugenic  adventures*  Yet  will  the 
common  man  raise  himself  to  self- 
sacrifice  or  perish  in  his  personality 
and  in  his  sons  and  daughters.  Yet 
will  the  causes  die  which  end  in  self- 
expression  and  self-development  and 
the  preciousness  of  not  dying.  Yet 
will  the  causes  live  and  triumph  which 
elicit  from  their  followers  the  submis 
sion  Roosevelt  gave  to  a  cause  I  must 
still  dare  to  count  not  unworthy,  even 
in  this  day  of  great  causes — the  cause 
of  these  new  hills  and  these  new 
valleys  on  which  we  try  once  more 

\2 


anew  the  experiment  of  a  society  to 
transfuse  and  to  transcend  the  indubi 
table  material  struggle  of  class  by  the 
indubitable  mystical  claim  of  humanity 
— the  cause  of  America. 

So  he  himself  still  lives*  He  lives, 
I  may  hope,  to  believe  that  he  did  not 
give  its  full  proper  place  to  the  struggle 
of  class*  He  lives*  I  may  hope,  to  see 
that  patriotism  by  itself  is  sacrilegious 
because  it  rends  the  body  of  Christ 
and  tears  His  seamless  coat*  I  may 
hope*  But  plainly  I  see  him  striding 
on  and  beating  the  mist  back  with 
swinging  elbows;  and  in  the  space 
beyond  is  the  gravity  of  Washington 
and  the  fierceness  of  Jackson  and  the 
melancholy  of  Lincoln  and  all  the 
riches  of  men  in  which  we  Americans 
are  already  so  rich ;  and  he  turns  his 

J3 


head  on  his  shoulder;  and  he  looks 
back;  and  I  cannot  hear  him  speak; 
but  I  can  hear  the  thing  that  was  his 
mark  and  the  symbol  of  his  mean 
ing  :  I  can  hear  the  click  of  teeth  with 
which  he  girded  himself  to  all  denial 
of  things  in  himself  that  weaken  and 
to  all  conquest  in  himself  of  things 
beyond;  and  I  can  hear  him  laugh. 
And  to  the  gravity  of  Washington 
and  the  fierceness  of  Jackson  and  the 
melancholy  of  Lincoln  I  see  added  the 
timeless  gayety  of  Roosevelt. 


'TpHOU'RT  dead  of  dying,  and  art  made  divine; 
Nor  need'st  thou  fear  to  change  or  life  or  will ; 

Wherefore  my  soul  well-nigh  doth  envy  thine* 
Fortune  and  time  across  thy  threshold  still 

Shall  dare  not  pass,  the  which  mid  us  below 

Bring  doubtful  joyance  blent  with  certain  ill* 
Clouds  are  there  none  to  dim  for  thee  Heaven's  glow ; 

The  measured  hours  compel  not  thee  at  all ; 

Chance  or  necessity  thou  canst  not  know* 
Thy  splendour  wanes  not  when  our  night  doth  fall, 

Nor  waxes  with  day's  light  however  clear, 

Nor  when  our  suns  the  season's  warmth  recall* 

MICHAEL  ANGELO 

{(Translated by  J.  A.  Symonds.) 


FIVE    HUNDRED    AND    FIFTY    COPIES 

OF    THIS    BOOK     (SECOND     EDITION) 

HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED  ON  VAN  GELDER 

HAND-MADE   PAPER   FOR 

THOMAS  BIRD  MOSHER 

PORTLAND  MAINE 

MDCCCCXX 


OVERDUE. 


is  W32 

FE3l2193f 


FEB  28  1933 
SEP     12   1944 

APR    151948 


, 


- 


||ft  19 


19196* 


MAY  1 6 1963 


YC  51566 


47014V 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


